As I look back on my high school days, I remember many great memories with many great friends. But for some reason, the adventures I had with Frankie Bruzzi are the ones that make the best stories.

I am convinced that one doesn’t got coyote hunting to kill coyotes. But rather, one goes coyote hunting to get the living feces scared out of him.

It was dark, and late. My friend Frankie Bruzzi showed up at the door, and said, “Get your gun, we’re going coyote hunting.”

Mom and dad nodded in approval, and despite the fact that we were unaccompanied by an adult, we hopped in Frank’s car and took off, guns loaded, and ready to kill us a wild pesky canine.

Keep in mind, that due to some genetic malformation, my pupils don’t dialate. They stay pinpont all the time, which means I have no night vision. It’s a long and sordid tale of syphilis, several generations ago, and the strange way that it has altered the genetic receptors that control pupil dilation. It has baffled many eye doctors, as it appears in very random places in the family. Great Grandma’s sordid past surely makes for some interesting tales at the ophthalmologist’s office.

So, up on the mountain we go. I’m holding Frank’s shoulder’s like an awkward prom date trying to dance from behind, as we hit the dark logging road, lit only by Frank’s red headlight.